Essence of Evil
by Seraph IV
Summary: When a Necromancer and a Paladin try to save the world for a second time, are they doomed to recieve the same fate as Diablo's Slayer?
1. Prologue

‡ Essence of Evil ‡  
  
By: Matt and Phil  
  
Prologue  
  
By: Phil  
  
Tyrael watched as Ezra entered the portal the Archangel had prepared for him. Ezra looked back one more time, and overlooked the Cavern. He would be the last mortal to lay eyes on it. Ezra stepped through, and emerged in Harrogath. Tyrael saw the Portal condense into nothing. The angelic being turned his body to the fallen Baal's body. The twisted creature had wasted so many lives, but no longer. He knew Baal was watching from within the recesses of the soulstone that rested upon the corpse he once inhabited, but he cared not. Tyrael bent down on one knee, and reached for the stone. The only way to eliminate the Prime Evil forever was to destroy that stone where his soul remained.  
  
Slowly he reached out his gauntlet covered hand to touch the soulstone, as his fingers closed down upon it. Instantly, he felt a burning as the Soulstone glowed a sickening blue hue. Before he knew it, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he lost all consciousness of his surroundings – swept into nothingness. Tyrael's body tensed, and as it lay collapsed beside Baal's, a red glow emitted from within the holy being's hood. A sinister laugh echoed out around the chamber, as the Angel's body stood. He reached out a hand, a deathly white glow covering his hands, as word flowed from his mouth. To the listener, it would seem as though he was using an Angelic tongue, but to the skilled, he was speaking the language of the fallen. The glow spread from his hands out to the soulstone, and covered it. The green light that seemed to irradiate from its core gave a final burst of brilliant colour, and faded. The stone returned to its dull yellow colour.  
  
Tyrael's mind came into focus, as he quickly realized his soul was entombed in the soulstone. But he did not look from the soulstone. He had an overall view of what was occurring; he had no physical standpoint to look from.  
  
"Finally."  
  
Tyrael recognized the voice instantly; it was that of Baal. The creature reached down his hand and grasped the soulstone. Tyrael hoped he would be returned to his body, but nothing happened. Tyrael gazed on without words as he saw his face peer into the depths of the crystal his soul resided in.  
  
"How do you suppose, a mere angel is to stand up to one of the Prime Evils? I had the soulstone enchanted, to lock whoever touched it inside, and release its current captive."  
  
Baal's face twisted, his own image merging with the features that were long carved into the angel's face. The lord of destruction tossed the soulstone off to the side, and reached for Tyrael's runeblade, grasping it tightly. He turned then, to the Worldstone, and grinned. 


	2. Chapter One

‡ Essence of Evil ‡  
  
By: Matt and Philip  
  
Chapter One  
  
By: Matt  
  
It was everywhere, the blood; pooling within the fractured stone of the lichen-plagued floor, it bubbled where the steaming breath of the countless denizens of Hell rose from those inmate's scorching prison. The inert body of a man's friend long passed floated down that crimson river, an uncanny smirk flashing upon blushed but lifeless lips.  
  
However it was merely a vision, a dream; something to be cast aside by some as nonsense, and to be vexed about by the few whom believed that such apparitions held truth within them. Alexander was one of those few. Educated as a Paladin of the Holy Order since boyhood, this righteous man believed dreams were the work of the Almighty – or, of the advocates of Evil.  
  
Ever so slowly, sweat ran the length of his gently sloped forehead – beads of respite, no less. A bare forearm lifted to wipe those droplets away as Alexander sat upon the unforgiving earth, breathless, upper body propped up by his free arm.  
  
For nearly a month now, the young man had traveled with a caravan of people: the caravan leader, himself a relatively boisterous – and irritable – old fellow, and another man and woman, twins. They had all been introduced, as was only customary, yet seldom did any of them seem to remember Alexander's name. At least, that's what impression he gathered. "Al," or, "Alex," they would call him. It left him quite infuriated, after the fourth or fifth time. "Alexander," he would correct them, with a smile that reflected only the utmost civility, yet at the same time the palms of his battle-worn hands rested upon his waist to display evident agitation.  
  
"Ah, yer finally awake, Al," the caravan leader declared as he flashed a wide, tooth-deficient grin to the Paladin. The thought of correcting him was flattened as Alex leaned back onto the ground with an exasperated groan, drawing in sleep-dazed hands to cover his face.  
  
Alexander was barely permitted a chance to rouse himself from such a disturbed sleep before the party once more began their journey. Dressed in robes of wool and leather they all were, abandoning what armor they had to the alleged safety of the caravan leader's cart, currently being towed ahead of them by a single donkey. Yet rid themselves of their weapons they did not; attacks by thieves and monsters alike were not uncommon during such days as had passed of late, those when many had lost faith in their Gods. The Paladins made up only a fraction of the few left who could attest to the Higher Power - the great influence wielded by those men, formerly of the Zakarum, could not be obtained without such a power.  
  
The cold-weathered country in which the caravan traveled through consisted of forests of maple and pine, covering ostensibly never-ending, gently rolling hillsides. Small rivers and creeks flowed about the bases of such hills, their Fall waters clouded with fish-troubled sludge. Browned needles of pine covered the ground far and wide, along with scores of colors of maple leaves. Each caravan member's final destination was to be the city of Harrogath – news of Evil's arrival to the lands of the Barbarians had spread like wildfire. A thin eyebrow arched atop eyes of clear blue as Alexander speculated as to what business the twins, or even the caravan leader himself, had in such a forsaken place. On the other hand, there was no doubt in his mind as to why he wanted to be in Harrogath; he, of course, wanted the Lord of Destruction – he wanted Baal. 


	3. Chapter Two

‡ Essence of Evil ‡  
  
By: Matt and Phil  
  
Chapter Two  
  
By: Phil  
  
Ezra blinked as he readjusted his eyes to the dull grey that tinted the barbarian village of Harrogath. A steady snow fell from the clouds, which coloured the sparsely populated area. Harrogath's walls were augmented with the flame of nearby torches and fire pits. Ezra surveyed the great carvings that were etched into the walls years before him and smiled, he knew his home was safe now.  
  
Ezra had received word that a lone Paladin and a band of necromancers had laid waste to Diablo and Mephisto's arcane bodies, and destroyed the soulstones in which their spirits retreated to, banishing them from all existence in this world. He was happy that his work was appreciated in other places of the world. All that remained was Baal's – and though Ezra wanted to dispose of it himself, Tyrael had said he needed to do it. He figured that an Angel was well capable of a destruction spell of some sort. But as glad as he was to see his hometown safe, he yearned to depart from it. Too many memories had occurred there, and he wished not to relive them, but as the necromancer would soon realize, he had no say in the matter.  
  
"Hello, Ezra."  
  
It was a woman's voice, soft as freshly fallen snow. Ezra quivered as a chill spread through him. He did not want to turn around; he feared looking into the speaker's eyes. He knew it was that of Anya, the daughter of the village's leader. As children they had once been friends, but things changed as time progressed. Ezra failed to protect her father in the fight against Baal. The elders designated him to be in charge if they had been defeated, and when they fell, Ezra ordered their forces to fall back. Ezra knew that Baal's minions would have taken out the army, and then he alone would be left to fight Baal. He was the best fighter the Barbarian army possessed, thought to be more skilled that even Qual-Kehk, for he had seen too many winters. He claimed he did not wish to sacrifice so many men who could protect the village, but his true fear was having the weight of the world's future riding upon his shoulders. But that was before destruction had taken the Worldstone. Ezra had no choice but to go after him, for Ezra's own father betrayed the world and gave Baal access to the Worldstone. And with the support of Tyrael, Ezra did what he thought impossible – barely.  
  
He turned to face Anya, and she gasped. There was a huge gash in his midriff, encircled with Charred skin. His left forearm was covered in thick red blood, a river it fed it from a deep wound in his upper shoulder. His legs were cut all over, and from the bottom corner of his right eye stemmed three lighting bolt shaped cuts, each pouring hot crimson liquid down his cheek.  
  
"Anya."  
  
He spoke those words calmly, hiding the great anxiety he felt within. Anya surveyed his wounds again, and then shook he head to her left, her deep black coloured hair swayed with the movement of her head.  
  
"We had better get you to Malah, its going to take the both of us to heal those wounds."  
  
Anya's eyes lingered on Ezra, but as he noticed her attention drawn to him, he turned, and began to limp towards Malah's Inn. Aching muscles pushed the broken body over to the small in closer area by Malah. He breathed in the crisp air of the mountain. Being frail as he was already, it did not take much to damage the little man's weak shell. Malah's eyes fell on his wounds for an instant then she sighed in happiness and regret.  
  
"Oh Ezra, thank you so much..."  
  
The necromancer grunted a reply as best he could, then looked at the blood covering his body. A soft whisper flowed through pursed lips and hit a note that snared the senses and brought upon a very unpleasant feeling, like something was trying to pull you into the ground. The note carried long and true, and before Malah and Anya realized what the note was, the thick red liquid covering Ezra' body began to boil and slither, until it shrunk back into his body. He took in a breath and then lay down on a bench, signaling for the healers to begin. It was nothing too special, a few spells, then some medicinal attention and Ezra felt as good as new. He drew out his findings from his trip while they finished taping up his stomach, and began to look them over.  
  
First off was a large bottle, much too large to hold a potion. Within it was a swirling grey cloud. Immediately Ezra recognized this as a hidden item, and judging from the aura it gave off he had found a rare one at that. It was unique in all senses of the word – it was the only one of that item in existence, and as such contained incredible powers. He pulled out a scroll from his pouch, a red seal holding it closed. He opened it and held it in his left hand, while his right grasped the neck of the large bottle. A quick glow and the items contents unblurred, the smoke forming into a solid figure, though it was still indiscernible. Moments later the scroll curled up and turned into dust, and the item was easy to see. It was the head of a Zakarum Demon – A Hierophant Trophy. But more important than that, it was in fact, the most powerful Hierophant Trophy in existence – The Homunculus. It was a pinkish colour, with deep blue eyes, so powerful that even though the head was dead, it still shone with life. In the creature's forehead rested a red jewel, a ceremonial remnant of the creature's once religious heritage. The handgrip was blue with a yellow band around it. Ezra was thrilled with such a find and barely noticed the tug of Malah's bandages around his stomach, and the sting of the ground plants on the damaged skin. He knew from his studies the powers this trophy possessed, and would grant to him. He quickly stashed it away, not wanting to show anyone else what he had found, for he wanted to inspect it further himself.  
  
The rest of the items were nothing special, a few potions, a belt, which did not fit, and a paladin shield that did not really interest him. He stuffed the useful things away and gave the belt and smaller potions to Malah, not wanting the gold she offered him in return. He turned off from her hotel, and across the village to his home, to Nihlathak's home, his father's home. 


	4. Chapter Three

† Essence of Evil †

By: Matt and Phil

Chapter Three

By: Matt

"Finally…" Alexander muttered as the caravan came to a clearing in the thick wood, Mount Harrogath clearly illuminated in the distance against the night sky. It had taken nearly four days to get close to the mountain, and another four it would take them to get to the city of Harrogath.

Groans and sighs of relief echoed into the night from the lips of the other party members, for finally they had a place to start a fire – and eat. A quarter of an hour later they were doing just that, gathered about the flames, feasting upon some sort of salted meat the caravan leader had along.

Silence surrounded them then - a silence that had begun between the caravan members since the first pangs of hunger and weariness began – only to be broken at times by the stirring of the strangely restless donkey.

"Odd," the caravan leader mused, "Usually that lazy old beast is more than willing to take a nap. I don't know what's gotten into her tonight." The rest of the party made no attempt to respond as they chewed on the tough meat, only casting the caravan leader a quick glimpse as a sign that they had even heard him.

Alexander sighed unenthusiastically, tossing his portion of the meat into the blaze before him. Scratching at a nuisance upon his right forearm, he leaned back onto the ground, staring up at the tree branches that strived to cover the opening in the clearing, stretching out eerily in resemblance to the wiry arms of a Wraith.

Alexander's gaze drew to the sky above the branches, a few stars now beginning to show through the overcast sky. He paused though, almost dismissing the faint outline around the stars as a trick of sleep deprivation. An inexorable tremble passed through his body as he realized that the bulbous yellow orbs that blinked down at him from the branches of the tree were _eyes_. He had scarcely enough time to roll to the side as the Fallen leapt onto the spot where he had been not a moment before, its crude scimitar lodged into the ground in a death-strike.

Crouched, Alexander shot out a foot at the wiry creature, sending it toppling backwards, cursing. By this point, the rest of the caravan were well aware of what was happening, all of them standing, weapons drawn. Alexander's fingers toyed with the hilt of the great sword strapped to his back, the sheathed gladius at his side tapping against his thigh as he stood.

The Fallen paused where he was, raising its scimitar in a salutation of authority, and screeched in some untranslatable language. The forest about the clearing came alive with flame as several more Fallen became visible, their torches igniting one-by-one. One of the twins, the male, spoke out, laughing as he did.

"Organized Fallen? That'll be the day! I'm just dreaming." He nodded to himself, turning about in a circle to face the closest Fallen. The creature grinned wickedly, showing blackened teeth, all sharpened vulgarly, as it slashed up at the man with it's short sword. The twin's laughing ceased as his left arm fell to the ground beside him, still gripping his cutlass in a death-grip.

An arrow from the other twin found lodging in between that Fallen's eyes, the minuscule body crumpling to the ground as it did, black blood flowing freely from the fatal wound. In that instant, the adopted battlefield erupted into chaos. Fallen streamed in from the surrounding trees, wielding crudely made swords and axes. Just as quickly as they poured in, the small red demons fell at the hands of the caravan associates, collapsing left right and center with little spoil to the defenders. The last one's head flew as Alexander's great sword sliced clean across it's neck.

Alexander leaned forward, using his blade to support him as he heaved a sigh. Crimson mixed with black as blood dripped from a wound on his forearm into the pool of Fallen blood that surrounded him. One hand rose to brush a strand of golden-brown hair from his tanned face as he turned about to check on the others.

The caravan leader was crouched beside the cart-donkey, scratching his head at the sight of the meager beast that had been made inert by the blade of one of the demons. The bow-wielding twin sat beside her brother, supporting him as blood flowed from his mutilated shoulder. The unsightly image of the lifeless body floating upon a river of red once more flashed into Alexander's conscious mind, sending a shiver down his spine. He shook his head clear of the image, sighing again as he began his curative chants.

Four more nights and days had Alexander at the gate to Harrogath. He had traveled ahead of the rest of the caravan members as they recovered from the strange encounter with the Fallen. Having been allowed to keep the wool robe that belonged to the caravan leader, his armor he now carried over his shoulder in a rawhide sack.

The thickly wooded areas had become sparser as Alexander neared Harrogath. Now, the surrounding shrubbery had been reduced to a few scraggly looking scrubs set sparingly out in the bitter fields.

Alexander's free hand reached to pull the robe's hood over his head. News, he figured, traveled fast. Everyone would want to meet the 'lone Paladin' whom had defeated Mephisto – friend and foe alike. That made him chuckle with dark amusement.

The thought, "If only they knew.." passed through his mind at that moment, as his legs carried him into the bleak of Harrogath.


End file.
